


the winds, they rise and fall; this is the wonder of devotion

by notdarthvader



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 11:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notdarthvader/pseuds/notdarthvader
Summary: In retrospect, Fenris should have realized just why Hawke never touched lightning.





	the winds, they rise and fall; this is the wonder of devotion

**Author's Note:**

> A character: has the potential to be a storm allegory  
> Me: eyes emoji
> 
>  
> 
> title taken from led zeppelin's the rain song

The first time it happens, it’s only really a suggestion, an implication of sorts.

* * *

 

The Tevinter mage calls down at them, demanding Hawke surrender Fenris.

Hawke says something, muted beneath the roar of the blood in his ears, and then-

Things sort of-

Shift.

The hairs on his arms stand on end, and there’s the hot, sudden smell of metal burning heavy in the air. Static crackles along the lines of Hawke’s armor, along the joints of Aveline’s as well, and from the bewildered look on her face, this is the first time she’s seen anything like this.

And then it dissipates as quickly as it came, shuddering away beneath the hot, sticky swell of the Kirkwall fall.

Hawke twirls his staff, and falls in line, ready.

* * *

 

The next time it happens, Hawke is bleeding out, a hole in his stomach, cleaved through by the Arishok.

Fenris’ nails are sinking into the wood of the railing, watching in horror as Hawke staggers on his feet.

“Will you meet death on your feet, like Basalit-an, Hawke?” The Arishock asks, Hawke’s blood sprayed across his face like cruel Vitaar.

Hawke breathes, his hands clenched around his staff as he leans heavily on it for support.

Hawke breathes, and the air shifts.

The muggy crackle of flame and fire washing from the room in the roll of a breeze, the smell of wet earth on its tail. Outside, through the holes blown in the walls of the keep, the sky shifts, storm clouds rolling in.

Isabela looks up, the lines around her eyes tight.

The qunari do not shift in fear the way Isabela might. But there is something. A stiffness to the line of their shoulders, and unease in their eyes.

They do not like the storm.

Ozone cracks through the air, sending goosebumps racing up his arms again, and even Varric looks unnerved by that.

From the corner, Hawke raises himself to his full height, powerful frame backed by-

By _something_ that Fenris cannot place.

The sky outside crackles, and the edges of Hawke’s shadow flicker in time, magic hissing around his fingertips, an eerie light in his whiskey-burned eyes.

He swings his staff again and settles into stance, the blade of his staff rested lightly against the ground.

“Brace yourself,” he says, and the Arishok snorts in response.

But Hawke has a look in his eyes, brilliant, powerful, and terrifying.

Fenris thinks, for however kind Hawke is, he is still a mage. He is still a creature of death and destruction and power that he will possibly never understand.

Hawke bares his teeth into something too vicious to be a smile as the Arishok charges, and Fenris knows that the match is already over.

* * *

 

The truth comes out then, when all other truths do.

When he meets his sister.

When he meets _him_.

* * *

 

His sister averts her eyes from him, and Hawke cracks a joke besides him, but it is stiff with warning, and heavy with the weight of anger.

Danarius appears at the top of the steps, smiling sickeningly, smiling viciously, and spills honeyed words to Hawke, treating him as if he were Fenris’ master.

As if Fenris had no place to speak for himself.

And Fenris is about to snarl out an insult for himself, when he feels it again.

That strange prickling at the back of his skull, the jittering in his ribcage, the anticipation setting his hairs on end.

Danarius goes quiet too, his eyes going wide. “How-“ he begins, but the crack of thunder outside cuts off whatever he was going to say.

“Summon them,” Hawke says then, his voice low and deadly. Isabela eyes are wide, and she is rushing patrons from the tavern, and Varric is taking a step back. “Summon your _slavers_ , summon your demons,” Hawke spits. “It will not matter. You will not have him. _Fenris belongs only to himself_.”

And the sky splits open.

He hears it, the rush of rain as it falls in sheets over the Hanged Man, the roar of thunder, not unlike the roar of dragons, shrieking in the sky overhead, and Danarius is pale, pale, pale.

The demons surge to life, as slavers rush down the stairs and Hawke-

Hawke slams the base of his staff into the ground, and from the heavens above, lightning splits through the roof of the tavern and arcs through the demons, the slavers, blinding and overwhelming, rain rushing through the gaps in its wake.

Only Danarius is left unharmed, stumbling backwards. “Please-“ he asks, looking at Hawke. “I have gold I could give you, I have-“

“The decision of whether you live or die,” Hawke says, and it’s terrible. “Is not mine to make. I’m just here to be the backup.”

Danarius turns his horrified gaze to Fenris.

And Fenris-

Fenris feels nothing.

* * *

 

“You-“ Fenris starts, and Hawke smiles apologetically, but it is a hollow, fragile thing. Empty, bracing.

Scared, almost.

“We- Well, Bethany was always strong but she- Well. My dad was strong, for a circle mage. And growing up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. The storms used to roll through. It would be so hot and sticky out, and then as soon as the first roll of cold air came across the plains, it was-“ Hawke shakes his head, shaking himself from his vision. “I woke my magic standing on the porch as the first wave of rain came over, and I woke it by calling down lightning all over the place. The crops were destroyed, the animals spooked,” he smiles sardonically, self-deprecatingly, and Fenris can feel how he aches. “and well. Didn’t much use lightning after that. But sometimes-“

Hawke’s eyes are distant, his expression wistful. “The first break of cool air before the storm hits. I miss it.”

“You called a storm when the qunari attacked,” Fenris says, because it has to be said.

Hawke winces. “Yeah, well. Sometimes my feelings get the better of me.”

“You called a storm when Danarius came.” And while it’s not an accusation, it sure as hell sounds like one.

Hawke looks at the ground, at his hands, at anywhere but Fenris. “Well. I-“ Cuts off. Breathes in. Tries again. “I know it’s not my place to feel things in your place. But I saw him, all smug, and he was speaking to me like I- Like I-“

“Like you owned me,” Fenris supplies, something like cruel humor in the curl of his lips, and Hawke can’t help the lurch of anger that hisses through his blood at that.

“ _No one owns you_ ,” he breathes out, he swears, he vows with every fiber of his being. “You are a _free man_.”

Fenris looks almost amused at that. “Yes. That I am. However anti-climactic it may feel.”

“I just,” Hawke looks at his hands again. “Maker, being this serious for so long is going to give me a heart attack. I just didn’t want you to- I didn’t want there to ever be- I’m-“ he cuts off and scuffs his heel on the ground. “I don’t know what I wanted. I just didn’t want him to look at me like that, and completely ignore everything you had done, everything you had faced down to get to where you are now. You- Fenris, you are-“ Hawke goes quiet, and says nothing more.

“So, are we going to talk about it or are you going to stare at your hands and say nothing?” Fenris asks, finally. “So you can summon storms with your anger. We watched that witch from the amulet turn into a dragon, I light up and can phase myself in and out or reality, and on a regular basis, you change the course of history just by existing. Storms or no storms, I knew you were a mage when I agreed to all this.”

Hawke is looking at him now, really looking, something awful and breaking and terrified in the whiskey-gold depths of his eyes, and Fenris feels a little like he’s drowning.

“I love you,” Hawke says, and it’s not as much as a surprise as Fenris thought it would be. “I- Fenris, I love you so much. I’ve always- Ever since you- You’re-“

Fenris snickers, unable to help himself, and watches as Hawke’s expression quickly turns offended. “How much do you think Varric would pay to hear how easily I struck you speechless.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“He did cheat me out of several sovereigns last game of Wicked Grace, and he does own me,” Fenris is definitely fighting back a smile now, and there’s one quivering at the corners of Hawke’s mouth.

“Alright, you absolute asshole. Laugh it up.”

“Don’t worry,” Fenris says, relieved as a familiar air settles back between then. “I intend to.”

Hawke smiles, and Fenris wonders if he can’t feel the static promise of lightning flickering in the wind.

Hawke turns to leave, a relieved slump to his shoulders, an easy smile on his face.

“Hawke,” Fenris calls after his back, and Hawke pauses, turning back to look at him.

“Hawke,” Fenris says again, softer. “I am yours.”

Hawke breathes in.

“No,” he says after a pause, and thunder whispers in the rumble of his voice, confident and steady. “No, Fenris, you belong only to yourself.” Hawke’s jaw is set, sturdy, like a promise, and his eyes blaze gold with confidence.

Fenris snorts. “You noble idiot.”

Hawke opens his mouth to argue, but Fenris grabs him, pulling him in for a kiss, hushing Hawke’s protests into a weak moan.

Fenris pulls away, and Hawke’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes dazed, and Fenris laughs again.

“Would I be less likely to offend your delicate sensibilities if I just told you I loved you, instead?”

“Yeah,” Hawke manages, a stupid, giddy smile on his face. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. But, uh, I think my ears weren’t working properly, so maybe if you could say it again?”

Fenris smirks. “Would you rather hear it, or have a more thorough demonstration?”

Hawke looks poleaxed, and all kinds of obnoxious, giddy, stupid mage. Fenris really hates how much he loves the idiot sometimes.

“Would I be pushing my luck too much if I asked for both?” Hawke asks, cheeky grin on his face.

Fenris just snorts. “I love you, you idiot mage. Perhaps now would be a good time for you to invite me to your manor so we don’t get arrested for public indecency.”

Hawke laughs, his smile wild and free like the fury-flicker of lightning, and for once, the electric crackle of his magic, of the lyrium singing through the air around him isn’t unnerving or terrifying.

Kirkwall may very well go to hell before the years out, as Meredith and Orsino plot and maneuver against each other, and perhaps in the end they will all just be dead men. But for now, here, in the quiet streets of Kirkwall at dusk, things are okay.

Hawke takes Fenris’ hand in his own, and Fenris smiles, really smiles.

Yeah.

Things are okay.


End file.
